You’re walking down Market Street, denim jacket buttoned up with black rollneck inside to keep the Autumn winds out. Its getting on for midday, time to head for a neat little watering hole and grab some sustenance and lubrication. You stick your hands deep in your pocket and cross the Square to a place that’s tucked away in a side street, which you visit on the odd occasion that you have a day like this. Sidle into the bar, grab a pint and a bacon cob and you’re well happy.

You grab a seat by the window and watch the world just pass you by. Sound. Away from the demands of the usual routine and the expectations of the outside world. Take a sip of the lager. Tastes just right. You could enjoy a few more of those. Take a bite into the cob. Just what you needed.

You have no need to plan what you want to do. It’s a day off.  You watch the people, the shoppers, the lunchtime wanderers. So whats it to be? It could be some tunes, maybe get your hands on some soul vibes. Or a few threads.  Or some reading matter. They’re the three things that get you going.

Your mates are all at work. You think about checking out their availability over the next couple of hours. But there’s no real point. All you’ll end up doing is visiting their workaday routine and get back into the clock watching world you’re usually a part of. No, better just to do your own thing. You’ll see the rest of them early enough anyway.

You down your pint and get up. You could have another but you know what that would end up as. A day spent in here rather than doing something worthwhile. You’ve spent enough days hanging around watering holes to know how it’s easy to forget about what you wanted to do.

Out through the door into the sunshine and its straight down the street towards the clothing emporiums of this part of town. There’s a neat one just ahead of you. You slip inside, nod at the bloke behind the counter, and head up the stairs to the menswear part. Its something of a disappointment. Not something you can put your finger on but there’s nothing there that grabs you particularly.

So its back out and next door. Much more promising. Some sharp strides grab your eye. But then you notice the tops. Oh yes. Neat rollnecks and a perfect target t-shirt. Just right for his time of the year underneath a coat. You ask the bloke if you can try it on and he says yes. Its perfect. Has to be purchased.

You’re off out of the shop and off back down the street. Its sounds next. No question. You stride across town, now you’ve made your purchase you’re well into it. Through the door and into the dark interior of a funk haven. Hard bass oozing out, a little keyboard, some guitar.

This is the way to spend your afternoons. There are few people in here but who cares. No one takes any notice of anyone else, they’re too busy flicking though the racks. Listening. Starting to get into it. You light a cigarette, this is one of the few places you’ve been to where they still allow you to smoke while you check it out. It enhances the atmosphere. In a way.

You wander off down the street again and look for another music shop. Could be one that sells guitars. You fancy a blast. But then you see something that catches your eye.

On the corner, next to the market, there’s a bloke with a saxophone. He’s starting to play, quietly for now. People are walking by him, taking no notice. But you stop and watch. Light another cigarette.

He blows into the sax, softly. Then he gets louder. You recognise the tune but you can’t remember where from. It’s a slow, haunting melody. One that gets you in your heart. Starts to lift you.

The man must be in his sixties. He stands there, dark skinned, with a black beret and white beard. Wearing a leather jacket and jeans. His big hands are moving across the sax, touching a note here, another there. He’s got a feel for it. No doubt.

The softer tones start to go. He’s moved into a more upbeat jazz feel. He blows his sax hard, blasting out the notes. Its inspiring. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you watch. Its Cry me a river. Has to be. You recognise it.

Julie London’s classic gets the paces. Its full on. This boy doesn’t care where he is. It could be Birdland. But he’s standing on the corner of this street. It doesn’t matter.

You see him give all he’s got. Soul reaching. Sends you. You watch as the man blasts his sax and you want to be there with him but you can’t play it. Never mind. You’ve seen what he can do and you will come to see him again.  You turn and walk away through the late afternoon to the bus stop. You have things to do. Meet up with everyone and spend the night around town. But that doesn’t mean you’ll forget. 

Its crisp in the air and there’s expectation ahead. As you’re walking your phone starts to ring. Where are you going, what time, how. Its all a part of life. You walk past the record shop, the other places. Time is running out. Maybe grab a burger. Who knows. You hear the sax behind you. Its sound. You get yourself ready for the next few hours. Here you go.